“They’re in the science-fiction section.”
“That explains it. I’m not much for farfetched fantasy,” Blade said, and faced to the southwest. The inky forest effectively screened the house from his view.
“You should try them sometime,” Geronimo suggested even as he constantly scoured the woods for danger. “There’s this starship called the Enterprise, see, and a crew that’s—”
“Geronimo.”
“Yes?”
“Not now.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Geronimo said, and sighed. “Boy, I wish Nathan was here.”
“So do I,” Blade stated, and started walking. With every stride he gained more confidence. Except for the agony in his shoulder, he felt fine.
The Warriors crossed the road and entered the woods beyond, moving quietly, fully professional now, staying side by side and dividing their line of vision, their combat-honed instincts primed. They covered two hundred yards without incident.
A twig snapped loudly to the west.
Both Warriors dropped into a crouch, their weapons swiveling, their ears straining.
A whisper of suggested movement came from the east.
Blade heard it and shifted, his back to Geronimo, his finger on the Commando’s trigger. Was it coincidence? Or was someone trying to catch them in a pincer attack?
“I make out three on this side,” Geronimo whispered.
A moment later Blade spied four figures darting from tree to tree 30 yards off, drawing the net tighter. “Four over here,” he repeated.
“How did they know where we were?” Geronimo wondered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Blade said. “If they charge, waste them.”
No sooner did the words clear his mouth than a series of bloodcurdling shrieks rent the night and the phantoms closed in.
CHAPTER TEN
Yama’s head streaked to the Browning and he stepped to the edge of the left-hand trash bin.
Driving slowly up the alley was a large white truck, a single occupant in the cab. Printed in block letters on the front of the huge, square hydraulic storage container was one word: SANITATION.
The Warrior pressed his back against the bin and calmly waited as the truck pulled in alongside the bins, the cab going ten feet past him, and braked. Evidently the driver had put the truck in park, because the door opened and slammed shut and the man started walking along the opposite side toward the rear.
Yama slid from concealment and cautiously moved in the same direction, listening to the driver happily whistle an airy tune. Pausing at the corner of the truck, he peered past it to see a well-built man over six feet in height who wore a white uniform.
The guy reached for a lever on the back of the truck.
In two quick paces Yama was next to him and jamming the Browning into the man’s ear. “Not a sound or you die.”
To the sanitation worker’s credit he didn’t panic. His brown eyes widened and his mouth slackened, but he retained his composure and kept silent.
“Excellent,” Yama said. “Come with me.” He backed up, pulling the driver after him, until they stood between the trash bins.
The driver glanced down at the unconscious four-wheeler driver and the pile of clothes, and expelled a sharp breath.
“I won’t harm you,” Yama told him, taking a stride backwards in case the man decided to be a hero.
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“Is your truck a manual or an automatic?”
The significance of the query eluded the sanitation worker. His brow knit and he replied, “Manual, why?”
“No reason. Take off your clothes.”
Defiance flared on the man’s face for all of five seconds, until he stared long and hard at the unwavering barrel of the Browning. “Whatever you want, mister,” he said reluctantly, and went about stripping off his uniform. Underneath he wore only orange underwear and purple socks.
Yama took a half-stride forward, his eyes on the white uniform, not giving the driver the slightest inkling of what was to come next. His left fist flashed straight out, his knuckles slamming against the driver’s jaw and felling the man where he stood.
A hasty scan showed no one else in the alley, and Yama took but a minute to squeeze into the driver’s white uniform, pulling it on over his own. He felt cramped and constricted with both uniforms on, with the sleeves on the sanitation outfit two inches too short and the hem of the pants two inches above his ankles, but resigned himself to wearing them.
He wasn’t about to remove the special garment constructed for him by the Family Weavers and run the risk of losing it.
Yama hurried around the front of the garbage truck and climbed into the cab, depositing the Wilkinson on the seat beside him. Some years ago he’d driven a jeep sporting a manual transmission, and he didn’t think the truck would be much different. After studying the dials and knobs on the dashboard and the shifting diagram imprinted on the top of the gearshift, which had been left in neutral and not in park, he felt confident enough to get underway.
Tramping in the clutch, Yama worked the gearshift, hearing a loud grinding noise as he did. With minor difficulty he succeeded in getting into first, and he started down the alley.
A stream of humanity was crossing the sidewalk, barring the way to the street.
Yama pressed on the horn, producing a strident beep, and watched the pedestrians quickly get out of the way. The truck cleared the alley mouth and he took a right. According to the gas gauge he had three fourths of a tank, more than enough to meet his needs. He blended into the traffic flow, keeping in the far right lane in case he needed to make a rapid getaway.
He was glad the sanitation worker had shown up. The delivery driver’s uniform would have been an even tighter fit, and he enjoyed greater anonymity in the truck than he would have on the four-wheeler.
But another problem presented itself.
The truck became hemmed in by scores of puttering trikes: front, back, and to the left. The drivers seemed heedless of their own safety and rode within inches of the truck’s massive wheels, making the potential for an accident and subsequent chain-reaction smashups very high indeed.
Yama was hard pressed to keep from crushing another vehicle. His eyes were constantly in motion from side mirror to side mirror and out the windshield at the river of trikes and four-wheelers in front of him. Since a majority of the other riders had the disconcerting habit of braking at the last instant when a light changed to red, Yama was compelled to carefully monitor the taillights in front of him, his foot always poised to tramp on the brakes.
Three blocks were covered without mishap. Yama looked for a street running east and west, one that would take him in the general direction of the Central Core.